


Rough Honey

by Kankri, SouthPark, theshadowswhisper



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M, Feminism, Philosophy, Second person POV, Torture, Violence, Wendstophe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kankri/pseuds/Kankri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthPark/pseuds/SouthPark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshadowswhisper/pseuds/theshadowswhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gregory brings in a certain violent feminist in as a new associate, Christophe's attention is piqued.  He's not entirely sure she'll survive the recruitment process, but he kind of hopes she does.  If only because he can't quite figure her out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to watch you  
> with the lipstick, the gestures  
> in the mirror. The way your legs crossed,  
> The skirt creased, the sun and thunder.  
> Where did you go? I remember  
> you walked like a soldier.”
> 
> “Rough Honey” by Melissa Stein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: South Park is not ours. This work is for entertainment purposes only. Weeeaaak.
> 
> Hello, friends. TSW here. This is a bit of weirdness inspired by RP with my dear friend and partner-in-crime, Max (who also cowrote/beta'd this), and the poetry collection Rough Honey by Melissa Stein. I recommend it (both the RP with Max and the poetry collection). I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope y’all enjoy reading! Fair credit where it’s due: Most of Christophe’s characterization, some of his dialogue tags, and many of his thoughts, and actions come straight from Max’s portrayal of him, and I had very little to do with it. So your Mole-centric admiration, should it come, should be directed that-a-way.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Violence, torture, gore, sex, swear words, crack! pairings, sociopaths, feminism, second-person-perspective, poetry, philosophy.

 Gregory is a predictable man, if nothing else.  So, when one night, he shoulders on his trench coat, tucks his hands in the pockets, and informs you he will be ‘out,’ you are suspicious.

“Where to?” you ask, eyes narrowed.

“To see a friend.” His tone is so entirely neutral that it does not assuage you one bit.

“You do not ‘ave friends.”  You can’t help but to be amused by the way his mouth drops into offended “o” shape at this.  He splutters in protest, and you push on before he can interrupt.  “So I will ask you again. Where are you going?”

“As it so happens, I _do_ have a friend.” Gregory yanks on the lapels of his coat in a pompous manner, still blustering.  “A friend who _isn’t_ you.  And I am going to see her tonight.”

“Ahahaha! You bastard, Gregory!  Is that so, mon ami?  Well then, shall we say…a friend…or a _friend_?”  You waggle your eyebrows at him, and of course, he doesn’t humor you.  He just rolls his eyes, makes a tsk of impatience in his throat.

“Nothing like that.”  Gregory turns his nose into the air.  He looks like such an ass when he scolds you.  It makes you want to ruffle his hair just to upset him a little bit.  “Just an old acquaintance.  We’ve been in contact for a few years, and I feel it is finally time to pay her a visit.”

“Can it be?  ’Ave you been carrying on a secret romance and not telling me?”  

Now you really _are_ hurt, a little bit.  “I am your best friend! You better ‘ave a good damn reason for keeping such a thing to yourself!”

“For the _last_ time,” Gregory’s loud voice belies his increasing irritation with you, “there is nothing of that nature going on.  I am going to visit my friend now; good _night_ , Christophe.”

He sweeps off dramatically, coattails fluttering after him, and you laugh, because you were kidding before.  But now, you’re at least somewhat certain that Gregory _does_ have some poor girl stashed off somewhere, and the thought is frankly hilarious.  You can’t really blame him for keeping her from you.  You live to embarrass the man.

But the fact that Gregory’s been keeping secrets means that, whoever this person is, she is a subject of great importance.  The idea of Gregory in love is just too irresistible.  You fucking have to see this.

You have the graciousness to give him all of a two-minute head start before following him.  

The little bitch loses you somewhere in Denver.  You are sure he did it on purpose, too.  To be fair, you wouldn’t have lost track of him if it weren’t for a very unfortunate fat woman walking her big fucking dog across the street.  You fucking _hate_ dogs.  Gregory is on one side of the street, and before you can cross to follow him down an alleyway, this tubby cunt and her hideous canine come lumbering along, and you pause a moment so as not to come in too-close contact with the murder-beast.  That moment costs you your visual on Gregory, and you can’t find him afterwards.

Fucking cocksucker dogs.

So, defeatedly, you slink home to putter around base, waiting for him to return so you can interrogate him.  To spite Gregory, you rearrange his books on the shelf.  He’ll be a little pissbaby about it when he finds that you’ve organized it all to your tastes (French literature on the top shelves, all the other degenerate trash on the floor).  And you will have a good laugh over it when he does.

Then you open your laptop to sort through potential clients for a few hours.  You are running low on cash, and need to pull in a bit of income, so you scan carefully for a job that sounds worth your while.  It’s slim pickings (as always), but there’s usually _something_ if you’re careful and know what to look for.

When you grow bored of this (and find nothing, fucking cheapskate douchebags), you pop _The Notebook_ into the DVD player and watch it for the hundredth time.  Gregory teases you for your fascination, but he has no heart, and no appreciation for the classics.  You rarely pay his opinions any mind.   _The Notebook_ is perfection, and he can blow it out his ass if he disagrees.  He is simply wrong. _Ahh, he wrote to her every day, for a year._  It gets you every time.

About four hours from the time he departs, he returns.  You peer over your shoulder when you hear him keying in the door code.  The door opens, and you hear the _whoosh_ of the changing air pressure.  Then you hear him shuffle around a bit, and his distinctive footsteps padding up the stairs.  That is not what disturbs you.  What disturbs you is the second set of unfamiliar footsteps.  You jump up from the couch, thinking your idiot partner has failed to notice an infiltrator, tailing him closely and slipping through base security without his taking notice of the fact.

You will hurt him for this bullshit.  An infiltrator could send information about your location to their cohorts even if you managed to neutralize the immediate threat.  And if the invader didn’t manage that much, you _still_ fucking hate scrubbing blood out of the fucking carpets.  It’s a _bitch_ to get the stains to relent, and the smell of bleach makes your nose hurt. 

You grab your shovel from its place of honor against the wall.

You enter the front foyer, shovel raised, scanning sign of the faggot pussy who is certainly about to meet the biggest bitch of them all.  It doesn’t take you long to find her.  Standing in the hallway, carefully hanging a lavender-colored felt coat on the rack by the door, is a girl.  Neither her gender nor her diminutive form inspires you to lower your weapon an inch.  You prepare to swing it down, and abruptly, she whips around.  She grabs your forearm to stop you.  She is surprisingly strong, surprisingly fast, and she looks at you, lifting a sharply angled eyebrow.  You pause.  She has the largest eyes you have ever seen.

“I was invited,” she says, holding your gaze levelly and lets you go.  “I’m Gregory’s friend.”  Her voice is quite calm for someone a moment away from losing her brain matter.

Now you lower your weapon and really look at her.  Gregory never brings _anyone_ back to base, especially not _friends_.  Though you are reluctant to relent--as there are many reasons she could know of Gregory--the story stacks up.  He had been leaving to tend to a female friend, and...that fire in her stare is sharp.  So, slowly, you break into a large smile, which you are certain makes you appear insane.

“Ah, _oui_.  You are his _friend_.”  You grab her hand to shake it.  It’s oddly calloused, for being so small.  “I am Christophe.  For the record, I am not sorry for almost braining you with my shovel. I was not expecting company. That asshole Gregory did not give me advanced notice.”

“A misunderstanding,” she smiles dismissively.  “Wendy Testaburger.  I’m sure it’s a pleasure to meet you—murder attempt notwithstanding, Christophe.”

She releases your hand, and you use it scratch the back of your neck.

“If I may ask,” you study her serious expression—this girl looks like she has never heard a joke in her life, “did ‘e ‘appen tell you _why_ ‘e brought you ‘ere?”  

It certainly wasn’t to meet _you_.  If that were the case, he might’ve given you a little bit of warning first.  So that possibly, you wouldn’t make your first impression on Gregory’s new girlfriend in the side of her _head_ with a metal shovel-blade.

“Orientation,” she answers promptly, to your utter bewilderment.  You have no idea what she’s talking about now.  “Gregory and I are about to embark on some great undertakings together.”

The way she says that—solemn eyes filled with determination and a very familiar fervor of idealistic passion—lets you know beyond a reasonable doubt that Gregory wasn’t lying before.  There is no way Wendy is talking about romance.

All you can think is what a _stupid_ person Gregory is.  The first pretty girl he brings back to base is here for work.

_“...CHRISTOPHE, WHY ARE MY BOOKS ON THE FLOOR?  I WILL MURDER YOU, YOU MISERABLE ROGUE!”_

Hah!


	2. Like a Plum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes it’s dark and muscular, the pain.  
> Sometimes it’s sweet: can’t tell his skin from mine.  
> Say what you like— even when he’s gone  
> he holds me where he’s bruised me like a plum.”
> 
> “Rough” by Melissa Stein

He locks her in a room the next morning, and you think he is even stupider than you originally assumed.

“What’s the matter with you?” You wave your hands at him, as he pours over a textbook on anatomy.  He ignores you, humming and making notes, pen scratching against a small Steno pad.

“This is not ‘ow you get laid!” you try to explain to him with utter exasperation.  “That girl will never forgive you.”

“I am not attempting to have intercourse, and she has accepted that this is necessary.”  Gregory doesn’t even look up, brow wrinkled in concentration as he peers at an illustration of a female—flayed on one side, arrows pointing to various muscle groups.

You make a short, exasperated sound at him.  “You are making a mistake.”

“And what would you have me do? If she is captured whilst accompanying me on missions, she could compromise us.”

“If you like ‘er at all,” you warn him, “you will let ‘er out right now.  Stop this. We do not need another associate.”

“What do you care?” Gregory tries to shoo you like an errant fly.  “We’ve done this and worse to others before.  Since when are you the sentimental type?  Wendy is none of your concern.  Besides, I don’t mean to do any permanent damage—hence my careful research here.”  He indicates to the book still open on the desk.  “She’ll hardly be a fit partner if she suffers long-term injury.”

The bitter taste in your mouth then is something like disgust.  Not so much for Wendy's sake, but for the blatant ignorance that your partner displays.  You do not host a damn ounce of emotion for this girl, but unfortunately, Gregory is important.  And his inevitable rejection at her behest could potentially collapse him.  You don't want to be the one to clean this up.

“’ow sweet,” you mock him, because he is a cocksucker, and he deserves it.  “This is going to bite you in the ass, et I want nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t understand why you are being this way.” He finally looks up at you.  His expression is totally flat and unruffled, peering back at you with a detached curiosity.  “What on earth do you care what happens Wendy Testaburger?  Honestly, Christophe.  Are you two friends without my prior knowledge of the connection?”

“Non.” You glare at him.  “ _You_ are my friend.  Et you will be alone forever if this is ‘ow you treat your dates.”

“I assure you: my interest in her is purely utilitarian,” Gregory tells you, and unbuttons his shirt sleeves.  He rolls them halfway up his arms, carefully tucking in the cuffs.  “She is quite eager to do some important work, and I see a very unique opportunity in her.”

You turn on your heel then, because you know a pointless argument when you see one.  You do not, by any means, easily admit defeat.  But you are not a parent.  You are not playing this game of mothering him.  “You see the inside of your ass, and nothing else, Gregory.”

And with that, you exit his office, slamming the door behind you. 

You take a job that requires your presence in the Southern Hemisphere and avoid base for the next few weeks.  But the job is way too easy, and ends before you anticipated that it might.  The stupid fucker forgets to get himself a disposable cellphone. Tracking him is insultingly simple, and killing him is easier still.  Like shooting babies in a barrel, or whatever that stupid English idiom is. …Phrases like that are especially apropos, when what you’ve actually done is shot a man through the head while he held his newborn child.  Hah, hah.

So you’re home a little early, and curiosity overwhelms you, as it often does.  You walk past the room, and you hear crying.  A woman’s crying.  You decide you will see if Gregory has made her regret her decision to be part of his crazy expeditions.  You will see how he has broken her.  Broken people often say the most interesting things, after all.

You pull the door, and she sits, as anticipated, curled in the corner.  They are always in the corner.  Not that you did much better, in similar circumstances.  The corner is safe; small tight spaces leave little room for something to sneak up on you.  ...Well, at least you never cried like a little bitch.

“Ahem,” you announce your presence when she fails to look up and acknowledge you.  “So. ‘ow goes it?”

She finally turns around, sniffling and wiping her eyes.   When she sees you, she covers herself from you with her hands—inadvertently displaying very visible bruises under her fingernails: indication of what Gregory was up to earlier.  You roll your eyes at this attempt at modesty. 

“I don’t give a shit about your tits, mon amour,” you tell her matter-of-factly.  Then you gesture to yourself by way of explanation.  “Asexual, and uninterested.”

She eyes you somewhat blankly, but still she crosses her arms over herself, pulling her knees underneath her body.  You note the angry red-purple swelling, puckered and purpling on her kneecaps.  Ah, so he used the gravel on this one.  You wonder how many hours he had her kneel on it.

These are hardly the worst signs of damage, however.  The corners of her mouth are crusted, eyes sunken: sure indicators of dehydration.  She is mottled with an assortment of injuries.  Some are older, yellowed edges ringing dulling purples and reds, and are some newer, still vibrant and bright against her starchy white skin—undeniable proof of not one, but many beatings, and you’d bet money Gregory used the cane to do it. He rarely likes to use his own hands for such things (too personal).  You can see her cheekbones, sharp under tightly pulled skin.  And you can count the bars of her ribs, see the outline of her sternum on her chest.  She was a slight girl when you met her, but if you didn’t know she’s been starved by looking at her, you’d see it in her miserable eyes.  Still so large—and they look larger still set in her hunger-gaunt face, with dark rings of exhaustion hanging beneath them.

“Good to see you, Christophe,” she tells you softly. “How have you been?”  Her voice is so much higher pitched than when you first met her.  It throws you off for a moment, and you smirk at her.

“’ave you been inhaling ‘elium?  Haha!  You sound like a fucking chipmunk.”

“Oh,” she looks embarrassed, in spite of everything.  She has to stop a moment to wheeze, and the air seems to rattle her.  “I’m sorry.  I’m just tired.  I…ah.  Pitch it down, usually.  My voice annoys me.  All high and squeaky and shit.  People don’t take me seriously.”

You snicker with incredulity.  “Ridiculous.  Does it not get tiresome do this all the time?” 

“Not really.  It’s just habit, by this point,” she sighs, audibly exhausted.  You notice she doesn’t try to pitch her voice now, despite her testament to how _simple_ it is.  Riiiight. 

You plop down on the floor with her then, legs kicked out in front of you, and lay down with your hands behind your head.  You exhale, staring at the ceiling as you muse absently.

“Wendy Testaburger is a very ‘omely name.” You say, almost just to yourself.  She stirs, possibly to peer down at you from her place, though you don’t bother to see if this is so.

“My real name is Gwendolyn.”  There is a shrug in her voice.  “After the poet.  I couldn’t pronounce it as a kid.”

“’ence Wendy,” you supply with a small laugh.  “It fits you, somehow. That other name…is a bit of a mouthful.”

“I suppose.”  She coughs again, and the sound is louder than her voice.  Raspy and racking.  “I never liked poetry, and I don’t like fiction any better.  So the fact that one of my names is for a poet, and the other was invented for a children’s book character always struck me as ironic.”  She rattles this off with the dull attitude you’ve heard Gregory use when speaking to fellow intellectuals.  Clever small talk was never your cup of tea.

“Ah, Wendy…like in the Peter Pan story. Oui.” You snicker; it’s such a droll conversation to be having in a fucking torture chamber that you can’t help it.  You are fond of irony.  “I bet you are wishing you could fly away now, euh?  Are you regretting this yet, Wendy?” You ask her, but it’s more of an accusation than a question 

“No.”  Her response is instant, resolute.  But then she hesitates.  “But…could I maybe ask you for a favor?”

Aha.  There it is.  The inevitable.  With a sigh, you move one hand to rub your fingers against your forehead.   _Merde_ , you hate it when they beg.  Weak bitches, pleading for food, water, or mother.  It is nearly always one of the three—and when it gets bad enough, death.  Unless it is you; you beg for death before mother every time. You never needed that _whore_. 

“…Don’t be a little pussy,” you pull your carton of cigarettes, flick it open.  “This was your choice.  If you don’t like it, tell Gregory the color, and you will be out of ‘ere in a ‘eartbeat.”

“Please, do not refer to me using that sexist terminology.”  A muscle jumps in her jaw as she lifts her pointed little chin, expression both haughty and offended.  You look at her in surprise at this response, and nearly laugh at the sight.  No wonder she and Gregory get along so well.  Little bitch.

“ _Anyway_ , I just…needed to know if you would bring me something,” she asks.  She draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them to herself.  You suppose the room is cold, and likely purposefully so.  It’s harder to fall asleep when shivering.  You think perhaps she’ll ask for a blanket.

“I am not a delivery worker.” You pluck a cigarette from your pack and pocket the carton.  Then you dig for your lighter, flick it on.  “Besides, if I ‘elp you ‘cheat,’ by bringing you food, or water or whatever you are about to ask me for, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of this?”  You gesture with your cigarette vaguely around the room for explanation.  “Just tell ‘im the color. If you can’t ‘andle it, you might as well—”

“I wasn’t going to ask for food or water,” she cuts you off, sounding thoroughly annoyed.  “I was going to ask if you could bring me my homework, and notes from what I’ve missed this week in class.”

A pause.   _“Quoi?”_

“My. Homework.”  She sit up straighter now, eyeing you expectantly.  “I wasn’t expecting to be here so long.  I really just need the reading assignments and my books.  Kyle Broflovski ought to be able to tell you what they are, if you’re willing to call him for me and ask— 

“'ush.  What you are telling me, Princess, is that this asshole Gregory ‘as been _torturing, beating_ et _starving_  you for a week et a ‘alf now...  And you want to do your _‘omework_?”

“I don’t want to get behind.”  She says this as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.  “If it hurts my GPA, I won’t get into a decent college.  And often, I am sitting in here, doing a whole lot of nothing.  So I might as well not waste my time.”

You laugh yourself silly after that.  You can’t help it.  You’re so surprised.  Of all things Wendy Testaburger could’ve asked you for, this is one you’d never expected.

You’re so amused that you do call Kyle.  You break into her house to fetch her books, too.  Kyle says something about dropping her homework off there, and you don’t really want to deal with her parents.  So instead, you climb the side of her house and let yourself in through her bedroom window.

You swing one combat-booted foot down over the windowsill, splattering mud all over a multi-colored throw rug.  Then you flip the lights, and you have to take a moment.  Her room is the last thing you fucking expect.  There are huge, cartoon flowers pasted on the walls.  With _sparkles_.  A battered stuffed unicorn sits on her bed.  Her comforter is pink, like most things in her room.  Pink, purple, yellow and glittery—everything so soft and childish that you have to stifle a chortle of disbelieving laughter so her parents don’t come up and force you to explain your presence there.

As you gather her books from her desktop, you knock over a ceramic mug, once again with a fucking unicorn painted on it.  You don’t bother to pick it up, just leave it there to spill some long-cold, brown liquid all over the carpet.  You think there might be a little mold growing in it.  Filthy.

You shove three purple notebooks, her textbook, and something that looks like a binder full of notes—you don’t really give a shit enough to look through and see if it’s relevant—into your messenger bag.  Then you hit the lights, and jump out the window with her crap.  It’s a bit too high, and it fucking hurts when you land hard, tremors of shock running up your legs.  But you shrug it off, snorting, and head back to base.  After seeing her soft, sparkles-and-unicorn crap room, you are one hundred percent sure there is something wrong with Gregory’s pretty new pet.  Some mental-wire malfunctioning.  Just like you, and just like Gregory.

The inconsistency, however, makes the steel in her eyes all the more appealing. 

And the next day you bring the things she asked for, grinning at her.  You drop them on the interrogation table, and then set a pencil on top of the stack—an added, thoughtful little gesture on your part.

“You are one of the craziest bitches I ‘ave ever met,” you tell her, and it’s absolutely a compliment.

“Thank you for bringing my books, Christophe,” she smiles then, despite the fact that she now sports a black eye, patches of her hair falling out.  “…But as I said, I prefer you didn’t refer to me using that offensive, patriarchal terminology.”

It’s then that you decide you like this crazy bitch, though her little contests against your most used, and well loved, word are going to drive you up a wall one day.  Still, if Gregory accidentally kills her, you will be somewhat disappointed.


	3. What a Beautiful Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They always said I was too smart  
> for my own good and good only for  
> making trouble. And I thought trouble? What  
> a beautiful word…”
> 
> “Robber girl” by Melissa Stein.

“What’s all this then?” you hear Gregory demand of her the next morning.  You sit outside the room just to listen to his reaction.  You wondered what he would make of all this, after all.  And apparently what he makes of it is “very suspicious.”  Judging by the all the shouting, at any rate.

“French homework.”

You hear papers shuffling as she explains: “I’m extremely behind.  So if you’re going do something to me, could you be quick about it?  I have a lot of conjugating to do.”

“That begs two questions.”

You know him well enough to know that Gregory’s extremely pleasant tone signifies danger.

“ _Where_ did you get your French homework, and why are you doing it _now_?”

More papers shuffling.  “I asked Christophe, and he brought it.  I’m doing it now because it’s due next week.”

You wince, wishing she hadn’t brought you into it.  You can practically feel Gregory’s furious glare.  He is going to be annoying about this later. You can hear it already. _“Don’t talk to my hostages, Christophe.  The last time you did, you drove that woman insane, and she killed herself before I could get the information out of her.  It’s not funny!  You are impossible!”_  

“You are supposed to be in _isolation_.” He makes a frustrated sound; you hear his chair scrape back, his feet pacing back and forth across the room in his agitation.  This strikes you as a particularly funny image: Gregory’s distress over this unexpected oddity.  It is almost tempting enough for you to open the door and see for yourself.  Gregory working himself into hysterics over absolutely nothing is always entertaining. 

“I am.  I’m just being productive about it.”  Wendy seems frustrated by him, an edge in her voice.  It’s refreshing, to hear someone so utterly unafraid of Gregory—someone other than yourself.  You _hardly_ count, seeing as you’re not generally biologically capable of feeling fear.

“Typical!  Christophe is doing this just to irk me,” Gregory snaps.  You huff, offended.  You often do things bother him; it’s true.  But this you did simply because Wendy amuses you.  Your motives are pure!  Or at least, where he’s concerned, they are.

“What are you playing at, Ms. Testaburger?” Gregory demands further. “Trying to prove your mettle by pretending you are unaffected by my ministrations, and using your homework as a clever prop and a distraction?  Some sort of ploy to get me to relent before it’s time?”

You hear the oddly distinctive sound of a textbook slapping down hard against a metal tabletop.  There’s still a rasp in Wendy’s voice (the effects of dehydration at work), but you know she’s angry—genuinely—because her voice is squeaky as shit, as if too pissed to bother to lower it down to what you now know is her intentionally deeper voice. 

“You know what, Gregory?” she asks, and personally, you like to imagine her finger pointed sharply between his eyes as she scolds him.  “You aren’t going to _really_ hurt me.  If you cut off my limbs or permanently cripple me, I’m not going to be very useful, and this whole process is totally pointless.  I know you can’t stand waste, so who are we kidding here?” 

You do laugh then, loudly and unapologetically.  Boy, does she have his number.

“Regardless—”

“ _Regardless_ ,” Wendy interrupts, and you snicker so hard you nearly fall over.  Gregory _hates_ being interrupted, and will likely make her pay for it.  If she knows this, she doesn’t care, because she continues on, plowing over whatever Gregory might’ve had to say in response:

“Whatever you’re going to do to me is _temporary_.  The damage you do to my GPA—which I have maintained for fucking YEARS—will be permanent.  So I suggest you fuck right off, because I have a test next week, and if I fail it because of you, I _will_ remove your limbs and sew them back on in the wrong places; don’t PUSH me!”

The beautiful part is, he does fuck off.  He shuts up.  And in the next few minutes, he stomps past you, infuriated and pouting like a child.  The bossy man can’t stand it when people don’t listen to him.  You think it is likely that he will whine about this for weeks.

You get up off the floor then, and walk into the little room.  She looks up from her textbook at you, and you offer Wendy a little round of applause for the commendable accomplishment of reducing Gregory to a frustrated infant.

She just cocks a sharp, black brow at you.  She is still in terrible shape, now worse than before.  Her bony elbows protrude at her sides, and her arms are blued with bruising, rope burns around her wrists.  She reeks, as Gregory hasn’t allowed her to bathe, and you can see that she shakes from the effort of sitting up in the chair.

“Your accent,” she says after a pause, “indicates that you can help answer a few questions I have about using passé composé in a sentence.”

“Oui,” you walk around behind her to look at what she is doing over her shoulder.  “For you, ma chérie, I believe I ‘ave a moment.”

It’s the seventh day that always breaks them.

Gregory does a cruel (and somewhat common, in certain circles) thing, which you find rather clever.  He tells Wendy she has six days left of her ordeal.  Six more she has to hold out, and then her trial period will be done.  This, as Wendy will soon find out, is a very intentional lie.

When he tells her this, however, her eyes immediately go to the digital clock he keeps in on the wall precisely for this reason, unable to resist brightening at the news that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  She does not suspect a thing.  You very nearly warn her, but Gregory is not wrong.  He is ridiculous, and he is an ass—but he is very smart.  He does what is necessary.  That is why in spite of his fussiness, his ideals, and his frustrating need for control, you do respect him.

If Wendy doesn’t survive this process, she can’t handle this job.  And as pleasant as you find her company, you don’t want her here if she’s going break down and cause problems for you.  You will not compromise yourself, not for her.  Not for anyone.

Gregory amps up the things he does to her, or at least you assume so.  You hear her scream more than once over the next few days.  He feeds her, gives her just enough water to stay alive.  He knows just how much that is, of course.

Wendy is strong, but you can see her resolve crumbling.  Her handwriting gets sloppier.  She makes very easy mistakes in her French.  She almost never changes her voice anymore.  You come to see her each day now, and each day she holds her head a little lower to the table.  You can see the sharp vertebrae along her spine, scabbing over where they press against the thin, translucent skin of her back.

You don’t do much to make her feel better, admittedly.  You don’t really try.   You do wonder why she doesn’t leave.  She could, at any time, you know, as must she.  All she has to do is confess the color she randomly selected before this process began, and Gregory will cut her loose like a rotting limb—because that color is the color of her flag of surrender.  (You're pretty sure it's pink, and that thought makes you laugh. Imagine that on a battlefield.)

You would have given up the color long ago, right from the beginning in fact.  You would never allow someone to pointlessly torture you this way.  Not because you are a coward, but because it is _stupid_.  To consciously, willing allow someone to torture you for days on end is brainless and idiotic.  You'd rather work alone than deal with this.

 _Wendy_ is not unintelligent, from what you can tell.  Not _this_ unintelligent anyway.  So there has to be another reason.

But you don’t understand what she gets out of it, and so you are interested.  An anomaly.  A paradox.  A mess of inconsistencies and conflicting truths, this Wendy Testaburger is. Holding on to some little shred of unimportant information like it's her lifeline.  Honestly, you think she _ought_ to leave; not that anyone asked you.  Then again, you would love to know what's sooo important that Wendy is willing to both jeopardize her precious GPA and endure this, so you're glad she doesn't.

Nothing you can come up with to explain it makes sense, so you just watch her.

“Wendy, ma belle, ‘ow are you today?”

“That better be a rhetorical question.”

She sweats now, cold and lack of sleep wracking her body with tremors.  The distant look in her eyes lets you know that _six days_ (four now) is all that’s sustaining her.  She is broken and holding on by the end of her wits.

“Do you want to finish reading your Lacan today?” you ask in the most bored of tones, mostly because you wonder how much of her spirit is left.  You don’t care much for her academia, but sometimes, it’s nice to hear her read it out loud.  Even in her badly accented French and pitchy voice.  There is something there, a _burning._  Wendy Testaburger speaks boring words with intensity.  You find high emotional displays riveting, because you do not truly experience them yourself. 

“You know I can’t get enough of my feminist epistemology.  Gimme that _Écrits_.”  Her smile is a ghost, thin and wavering on her lips, gone before it ever fully surfaces.  You still hand her the book, dog-eared and full of her notes.  She opens to the middle.  When she bends over the text, her head lolls drearily over the page.

“ _Castration means that that jouissance has to be refused in order to be attained on the inverse scale of the Law of desire_ ,” She reads the translation instead of the French, and her brow puckers.  She looks up from the page at you to interrupt herself. 

“Do you know, Christophe, that _jouissance_ is both orgasm, and the enjoyment of property?”

“Oui,” you smirk at her.  Then you indicate to yourself in a lazy manner.  “My mother tongue is full of things like this.  Euh…subtleties.” 

“It's a bit of…an objectifying implication,” she murmurs, eyes beginning to drop shut, book dangling from her hands and tipping onto the tabletop.  “Climax…sex, the enjoyment of property…they are not the same thing, Christophe.  You enjoy people _differently_ …than you enjoy…objects.”

“I would not know.”  This is true for multiple reasons.  You eye her as she slumps over the book.  She stirs with a little moan and tries to rouse herself.  But instead, her head drops onto her folded wrists, and you see a long, purple scar along the back of her neck.

She doesn’t get up for a long time.  Her shoulders shake.  You think she might be crying.

“Just four m-more days.”

You hear her say it like she’s scolding herself.  

“Four and-and then it’s…d-done…”

It doesn’t seem to rouse her much, but why should it?  A timeframe is a blink into eternity.  You know that there is nothing but the present, however miserable it happens to be.

So you get up and leave her to it.  You doubt she wants you to see her tears anyway.  Absently, you think it would be better for her to rest awhile, to stop reading about the Laws of Desire and give her body what it needs.  But soon after you leave, Gregory passes you on his way to her, a long white box in hand you know to contain a collection of clever leather switches.  Then you guess it doesn’t matter.  Her refusal to give in only heightens the eventual and inevitable _jouissance_.   There will be enjoyment of property tonight, but it will not be for Wendy.  For the time being, she does not own her body.


	4. Long, Formal Opinions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…Pink soldered body:  
> Tugging at the ends of my gown, I cover  
> the scars like long and formal  
> opinions.)”
> 
> “The Night Orchard” (VI Death In an Orchard) by Melissa Stein.

The next time you see her, she does not get up to greet you.

Her book is face down on the table in a way you know she would not usually allow, breaking the spine so it will always open to the same page.  She is also face down, on the floor.

Gregory’s switches have opened her back, so you can see hints of the white vertebra poking through the sticky red and clotted black.  It is fascinating, a bit.  Bone is always whiter than you expect.

She doesn’t move much, but upon closer inspection, you can see that she breathes. Her chest pushes against the floor, and every time she exhales, she hisses.

"That will not ‘eal prettily,” you tell her, squatting to her level, “you will ‘ave quite the scars.”

She whimpers, but manages to rasp out, “N-no more h-halter tops for m-me I guess.”

You chuckle, because she hasn’t begged you.  She still hasn’t asked for your help.  It is in fact, the only reason you offer it:

“Did you want my ‘elp with your ‘omework today?”

She nods, cheek rubbing against the linoleum, her eyes screwed shut.  “I need...yes, I want to…  But-but just…give me a moment.”  She makes a sound that could be a laugh.  You don’t think it is, not exactly.

“Take your time.”  You rise up off your haunches to sit at the table, in Gregory’s chair, to wait for her.  You are very skeptical she will be joining you soon.  She has not even begun to struggle yet.  She just lies there, limply, fingers clenching and unclenching around a handful of nothing.

“Nn, just a moment, Christophe,” she is so soft, her voice like a call from beyond.  “A moment.”

“I ‘ave the time.”  You smile at your own watch (a gift from Gregory, long ago).  The face still reads _The Third Act: The Ticking Clock_.  You wonder if Wendy’s final act draws near, or if the numbers are in her favor.  You wonder if she has the moment she promised you, and watch to see if death makes her into a liar.

“J-just two more days.”  She mumbles this insensibly, a mantra.  If she needs it as much as she sounds like she does, she is in trouble.  “Come on, p-pull yourself together.  It’s-it’s almost...  Just-just…” 

You shake your head at the sight.  She will learn not to trust so easily soon. 

She doesn’t die, but in the next moment, she is unconscious.  Her breathing evens out, fists going slack. You would bet that she is glad for this. 

You sigh, and almost leave, but you decide you want to ask her some questions about Lacan’s inverse relationship of denial and desire—two concepts you have never fully grasped by themselves, let alone functioning together.  So you wait for the moment she promised, and the clock ticks.

Time goes on, and you grow bored, however, so you take a sheet of text from her assignment pile and translate it for her.  It is child’s play, too easy--why wouldn't it be?--and so you do a bunch of them.  They are very dull, mostly stupid anecdotes about people who no doubt do not actually exist.  If they did, you would fucking _kill_ them just for being so boring. When she wakes up again, you complain about this.

“I do not give a fuck about this bitch ‘ _Jean Duponte_.’” You spit distastefully.  “Why do they keep telling these pointless stories about ‘im and ‘is fucking bicycle?   _C'est stupide_ , no one cares!”

She blinks at you, pupils swimming and dilated with pain.  You think she might be delirious, because it doesn’t appear that she registers you sitting before her.

“Thank you,” she says, after a beat, sounding stunned.  And you grin with surprise; because you now know she both heard and listened.  There is a flame burning yet.  There will be a Fourth Act; you are sure of it.

“Non, it is not a problem.”  You shake your head, and bend down to pat hers.  “Your 'omework is easy for me, and you might still survive this.  But if you failed your classes…”  You chuckle.  “I fear you might lose the will to live. And that would be a shame.  You ‘ave been surprising, Wendy, and not much surprises me these days.”

You don’t know if she hears you, honestly, because by the time you finish talking, she is unconscious again.

You let yourself out, but you take her book with you, closing it and sliding your finger down its dented spine.  You will learn about the Laws of desire on your own tonight, it seems.

On the seventh day, Wendy won’t look at you.  She sits with her forehead against her knees on the floor.  Gregory hung her upside down (in intervals) all morning and most of the afternoon, though, so it might be because her head fucking hurts.  You know from experience it must.

“Mon amour,” you say after a long while, sitting next to her on the ground.  “Why so miserable?”  Though you know damn well why.

She does look up then.  Burst capillaries in her bloodshot eyes make the blue in her irises dark.  She meets your eye and is silent for a moment.  And then, her eyebrows dig down, her lip curls, and she’s not just angry.  She is furious.

“…That _fucker_ lied to me,” she hisses, croaking the venomous statement through her dry throat.

You burst out in happy, surprised laughter at her for what feels like the thousandth time then.  And you wonder how you ever thought Gregory was a match for her, in any sense of the word.  She would rather die defying him than give into him, even over a stupid _color_ —and for that reason alone, she has your respect.

Gregory isn’t going to be pleased by her resistance, you know.  But that is his own stupid fault for failing to see what is so readily apparent to you.

Wendy Testaburger sits there on the floor on the seventh day, and she doesn’t cry.  She doesn’t beg to be let out, disillusioned with life-saving promises that _someday the torture would end_.  She doesn’t need Gregory’s promises.  You’re pretty sure that the next time he comes in here, she’s going to attack him and _force_ him to let her out. 

And well, you think that’s fair enough.  Someone ought to make sure that fucker kept his promises every once in a while.


	5. Baffled Sting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...Sometimes a bee  
> In self defense--I wish I'd been kinder  
> to you--will die of its own baffled sting."
> 
> "Apologia" by Melissa Stein.

“She’s never coming back,” Gregory despairs, and you snort at him.  The man the both of you are in the process of “interrogating” whimpers.  He is a little bitch and gave you what you wanted hours ago.  Now, it’s mostly just for fun.  

You put your lit cigarette out on his eye, and he howls, twisting in his bonds and shrieking.

“She will,” you prod Gregory with your elbow.  “She did not go through that for no reason.  Give ‘er some credit.”

Gregory’s brow crinkles with annoyance as the man begs for mercy.

“I cannot have this conversation with you if he continues to scream and drown us out.”  Gregory’s voice is the embodiment of pure exasperation.  He pulls a pistol from his belt and bends down on one knee to level with the hostage. 

“Darling,” Gregory’s voice is silky and pleasant.  “You really mustn’t fuss this way.  It’s time to say goodnight.”

The man is insensate, still crying about the cigarette-in-his-eye-business no doubt, and so he does not reply.  You snort and plant the nose of your shovel into the carpeting to lean against it.  Gregory rolls his eyes at the man’s desperate pleading, and makes a sound of disgust and boredom  in his throat.

“Open, Pumpkin,” he reaches out and roughly grabs the man’s head.  Mechanically, the man’s jaw hangs obediently wide.  Without any more preamble, Gregory inserts the barrel of his gun into the man’s open mouth, cocks and pulls.  Brain matter and blood splatter out from the back of the guy’s head, and he jerks in his seat before slumping forward. 

Gregory gets to his feet and retracts his weapon, upper lip curled with distaste.  But he is not looking at the fresh corpse leaking spinal fluid and blood from the gaping hole at the back of the skull.  Gregory gazes instead at the mess the ordeal has caused on his clothing. You laugh at him, taking another cigarette from the carton in your cargoes pocket.

“I told you.  If you don’t want the splatter on your clothing, shoot them from afar, you fucking poodle!”

Gregory glares at you, but not for too long.  Very soon, he becomes preoccupied fussing with his trench coat, spotted with a smattering of various blood specks.

“Anyway,” he tugs his lapels and straightens his jacket collar.  He sniffs haughtily.  “Now that the noise level is dealt with.  As you were saying?”

You flick your lighter on, hold the tip to the flame, and put the unlit end to your lips.  You take a good long drag and blow it out again before answering him.   You do this primarily to annoy him, to make him wait for an answer. 

“I was saying,” you explain calmly, “Wendy will come back to us.”

“And what on earth gives you that idea?” Gregory demands.  It’s clear he’s irritated, because you know that silly, childish pout so well by this point that you’d recognize it before your own reflection.  “She took off just as soon as I cleared her bill of health and let her out.  She hasn’t been back in well over a week!”

“Yes,” you pat his hand sympathetically.  It must be hard to be so truly naive as Gregory sometimes.  “Because she ‘ad ‘omework to turn in.  She will come back.  You did not break ‘er, Gregory.” 

“I know that.” He puts his hands behind his back and stands at-ease.  His stint at the Queen’s Academy taught Gregory to carry himself like a soldier.  You know him well enough to know that this is misleading.  Gregory does not care about King or Country.  He is a mercenary and an expatriate.  He cares about just one thing (outside of you).

“Then why do you worry?”

He narrows his eyes a moment, squinting ahead into nothingness as if everything in the world displeases him.  “...Because she didn’t tell me the color.  When it was over.” He sounds utterly petulant.  “She was supposed to tell me.  She wouldn’t.  She directly defied me, purely out of spite.  So I worry she has given up on this whole endeavour due to being angry with me.” 

You slap his back hard enough to make him start forward, and chuckle.

“That is because you are an asshole, and you lied to ‘er.  I am pretty sure she would ‘ave spit in your face if she did not think that refusing you would be a better way to piss you off.”  Still laughing, swing your shovel over your shoulder and begin to head out, and once you rile down, you pick up whistling.

Gregory follows, and neither of you look back at the man doubled over himself, tied up and executed in his own living room.  Not such a _lively_ room after all, you think, and then laugh out loud at your own joke.  You are hilarious, and no one seems to appreciate this fact.

“But, she will be back,” you say reassuringly as Gregory tucks his pistol back into his belt, after wiping the muzzle clean with a handkerchief.  “After she catches up in school. As I ‘ave said, she did not risk ‘er GPA for  nothing, mon tresor.”

“I suppose,” Gregory acquiesces.  But of course he does.  You are right, and he has the grace to acknowledge that much. 

You pause at the front door to look thoughtfully as Gregory sweeps past you onto the porch.  He seems quite prepared to let the subject drop.  But before hopping into your jeep to make your getaway, you decide that, on top of giving him hope, you need to drive home a little point before he gets too caught up.

“You know she ‘ates you,” you say, matching your comrade’s pace. 

“I know.” 

“It is your own fault.”  You shake your head and climb into shotgun through the window, not bothering to use the door like a normal person might.  “You traded ‘er friendship for this bullshit.” You gesture to yourself, the weaponry in the backseat.  “Your ability to trust ‘er cost you any chance you ‘ad for ‘er love.”

“I know,” Gregory’s hands grip the steering wheel, and though his voice gives nothing away, you see it in the whitening of his knuckles.

“I warned you.”

“Shut up, Christophe.  Just shut _up_."

 


	6. valse mille temps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "behind your eyes--  
> milky & blue-rimmed &  
> clear & forgiven--  
> valse mille temps--madeliene--
> 
> finally had an emotion  
> but i dropped it  
> into a story  
> that wasn't mine--
> 
> a glass of water
> 
> with a hole in it."
> 
> "Dead heat" by Melissa Stein.

“Christophe.”

She says your name, so friendly and warm, smiling at you.  You feel something—a little squeeze—right behind your ribcage, between your lungs. It’s probably your heart, throbbing because your mother tried to stab through it with a clothing hanger while you were still in the womb.  Or because of the plague build up in your arteries from your cigarettes.  But it may also be the way she’s looking at you. 

“I missed you,” she confesses.  “I kept turning to ask you questions of about my French, and you weren’t there.”

She rubs at the back of her head, and you noticed that she’s put back on some of the weight she lost in Gregory’s room.  Her face is still a little pinched, but the glossy sheen has returned to her hair, that hard glitter still bright in her eyes.  Her cheeks are pink and alive again.  You must admit, you prefer her this way.

“Ahh, Wendy, mon ange,” you take her hand, and lean over to kiss her knuckles.  “I am ‘appy to be your tutor.”

She jerks back nearly the moment you touch her, and she pulls her hand away, tucking it into her pocket.  All the warmth disappears.  She looks slightly panicked.   

You raise both brows at her as she backpedals.  “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s just I prefer,” she says after a moment, and bites her lip, hesitant.  “Um. Not to be touched.  Physically, I mean.  It’s not you, of course.  It’s, well.  I don’t like it when _anyone_ touches me.  For any reason, really.”

“I see.”  You hold you hands up to reassure her that you won’t try to make contact again.  “Well, you are going to ‘ave to get over it. Gregory is going to teach you some rough-and-tumble today, euh?  ‘E will probably touch you while you learn.”

She shrugs off her coat to hang it, unwinds the bright yellow scarf looped around her neck.  She folds it in half and drapes that too, over the coat rack.

“Oh, sparring is different.” Wendy bends to undo her boots.  She looks up at you with a slight grin as she works the laces.  “I just can’t stand casual or intimate contact.  Combat, I can handle.  I’ve just got some…pretty nasty negative associations with hand holding, kissing, general touching from childhood.  I don’t have the same problems with the kind of contact that happens during a fight.”

“So...you would rather someone attack you than ‘old your hand?”

“Pretty much.”  She picks up her boots and sets them neatly by the door, in perfect juxtaposition to your carelessly kicked-aside, muddy shoes beside them. 

You snort, and shake your head at her.  “You are crazy.  I become more sure of this each time I talk to you, chérie.”

“…Thank you for refraining from calling me a bitch or a pussy this time, at least,” Wendy says, rolling her eyes a little bit as she talks to you over her shoulder.  She is already headed for the studio to work with Gregory.  “And…thanks again, for bringing me my homework before.  It was pretty easy to catch up, thanks to you, Christophe.  I owe you one.”

“I do not watch my tongue for you."  You will not let her disillusion herself, thinking you care about her feminist prattle.  But, you relent on her other point, and simply shrug.  "Of course."

You follow her, because you kind of want to watch her kick his ass.  In fact, you think it might make your entire week.

“We need to assess your current proficiency level,” Gregory says by way of greeting when he catches sight of her.  He removes his gold watch and sets it on a little stool beside the mat he’s set up in the open space inside the base’s storage locker.  This functions as the “studio.”  It isn’t much, but neither you nor Gregory do a lot of formal practice anymore.  The job, plus informal grappling and tussling together keeps you both lose enough. 

Wendy twists her hair back into a ponytail and nods back to Gregory seriously.  “Gotcha,” she stretches her shoulders by swinging her arms back and forth, loosening up.  “Do you just want me to come at you?” 

If her lack of reluctance surprises Gregory, he doesn’t show it.  He nods to her as he unbuttons and rolls up the sleeves of his oxford shirt.   He steps on the mat, bends his knees slightly, and faces her.

“Go easy on ‘im, euh Wendy?” you catcall through your hands, sitting cross-legged on the floor to watch them.  “’E will cry if you beat ‘im too badly!”

She smiles at you as you cackle, and Gregory issues a little sound of impatience before turning his attention back to more important matters.

“When you’re ready.”  He sinks into the proper position, eyes focused on her every movement—calculating.  You know that look well.  Gregory always sizes up his opponents and looks for weakness.  Wendy is significantly smaller and probably physically weaker than he is.  Based on that alone, you know him well enough to wager that he will try to pin her quickly, so as to use his size advantage to overpower her.

Wendy’s face is solemn, concentrated.  You note that you would probably go for a full force tackle, maybe drive your shoulder into his abdomen to wind him as you take him down.  But she dances around him instead of engaging directly.  Her guard’s up, and she skitters around an invisible perimeter, not close enough for Gregory to hit her, but about a step away from being able to get a swing in.  If Gregory tries to close the space, she dances back.  This goes on for a few tense moments.

You know immediately what kind of fighter she is then: a cautious one. Of course.  Both Gregory and yourself are competent, but reckless.  Wendy is not so.  But this is uninteresting.  You can't see why anyone would want to live behind a glass.

“Are you planning to engage sometime soon?”

Wendy sneers at him. “Like I’m gonna tell you my plans.”  She fakes in, and Gregory flinches back reflexively.  He attempts to lash out at her in retaliation, but misses when she ducks.  The moment she comes up, she gets close enough to pop him in the jaw before jogging back again, and Gregory snarls at her for this.

“You fight like someone who can’t take a hit,” he growls, rubbing faintly at his chin.

“I fight like someone who doesn’t _have_ to.” 

You laugh, slapping at your thigh.  You hate fighting people like this.  You would rather have a much more physical kind of brawl in the dirt.  But watching Gregory try to cope with it is pure gold.

He attempts to take her down, springing forward and grabbing her arm, wrenching it behind her back.  She cries out faintly in pain, but he doesn’t have her long.  Her foot mashes his instep, and she catches him in the diaphragm with the sharp part of her free elbow as a follow-up. Then she breaks the hold, and elbows him in the head.  She puts the distance between them once more--you’ll tell her later, that this is the wrong thing to do.  She is not trying to escape.  She’s trying to put him _down_.  Retreat is the exact opposite of the correct reflex.  What she needs to do when she gains a slight advantage like this is go for the kill-strike and end the fight for good.  This is something she will learn from practice, you assume.

“Have you read _The Art of War,_ Wendy?” Gregory’s face is dark, body poised and dangerous.  His hair is askew, implacable demeanor dismantled.  But best of all, his voice is a little breathy from the hit.   “If so, you know that a defensive strategy is foolhardy.  Attack first, and set the terms of engagement!”

He summons her with a challenging stare.  “I don’t have all day!”

Wendy is quiet.  You watch her, the stoney expression on her face.  She doesn’t seem to respond to Gregory’s obvious baiting.  She doesn’t hold still either, changing her weight from foot to foot and shifting about.  Her fancy footwork is excessive, and you think it’s rather a waste of energy.  Why waste time with useless technique, when in the field there is only time to react or _die_?  And you know quite well by now: cannot take fancy technique with you to the grave.

Gregory, however, takes her formal approach as an insult to his own technical proficiency and combats her on these terms.  He is utterly useless, then.  She won’t survive if this is the only way she knows how to fight.  You will have to teach her a thing or two on your own later, about _engagement_.

For now, she stands off with Gregory, the two of them like chess players trying to anticipate the others’ next move.

It is a long fight.   _Too_ long, and by the end, they are shouting at each other and pulling hair.  They are school children, sniping and squalling.  

The only interesting moment is when Gregory pins her to the mat, unmercifully yanking her arm behind her back.  And it is only interesting because of how hilarious her squeaky voice sounds spewing all manner of awful curse words.

“Submit, Wendy!” he demands, snarling.  “You have lost!  If you struggle now, you will pull every tendon in your shoulder!”

She hesitates, but taps out.  He lets her up, and she ignores the hand he extends to help her to her feet.

“Again,” is all she says, panting.  She swipes some hair from her sweaty, red face.  “Let’s go again.”

“As you wish.”

“Don’t hold back this time,” she spits at him, and then rubs the back of her wrist across her face.  

It should get boring to watch them roll about, punching, kicking, elbowing and pinning each other.  It does not.  You think this is how other people must feel at the ballet.

After an hour or so, she goes to get water.  And then she turns to you.

“You’re next,” she says with a smile.  Her teeth are very white, though the lower ones are slightly crooked.  “I want to see how I stack up to you too, Christophe.”

You touch the center of your chest, and mock a half-bow in acquiescence to her demands.

“I look forward to it.” You grin, honestly.  “I will teach you ‘ow to be ruthless.”

You say it, but it is a throwaway comment.  She already knows how.  You just want her to prove it to you; you just want to feel it for yourself.  You can never resist holding your fingers to a pretty, dancing flame.  If she nips you like the minx she is, fire biting the hand that is stupid enough to touch--you think, you would be proud of the burns.


	7. Manageable Storm of Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "soothing too, a manageable storm of boredom  
> and sex, now headless, now armless, pressing  
> against the glass, white anonymous lullaby half-  
> babydoll, tottering in skyscraper heels, oh  
> I want something so beautiful I forget my life."
> 
> "Aquarium" by Melissa Stein.

You have no particular reason to trust her, but you don’t protest when Gregory announces that she will accompany the two of you on your next mission.  The dry-spell as far as jobs goes has left you at a bit of a cash dearth, and the only remedy for this is a heist. You don’t like these robbery games much, but you are practical.  And wasting a nest of drug dealers and then “liberating” their ill-gotten gains satisfies both your financial needs and Gregory’s idealistic ones.  

Besides, today will be interesting.  This expedition will serve as Wendy’s final test.  If she fails now, all she has gone through so far will have been a waste.  Because regardless of previous performance, if she can’t handle the pressure of being on the field, can’t rise to the occasion and perform when it matters, then you are sure Gregory will kill her.  That, he will or assign you the honors, perhaps--likely just to see if you’ll _do_ it.  Gregory enjoys these kinds of little tests, as do you.  It is always riveting to try to answer the question as to exactly how far people will go.  But you damn well wish he wouldn’t do it to you, because while you do not have any particular inclinations towards the girl, you are his _friend_ , not his fucking lab rat.  You only forgive him (a little bit) because you know he can’t really help himself.  Anyone else might be offended, but you know him too well by this point not to understand: it’s just his compulsion.  

Still, if it comes to that, you will kill her without hesitation, because you understand why it is necessary.  There are really no special reservations, but Wendy is sort of your friend.  She just knows too much now to simply let her walk away.  And she is of no use if she can’t contribute.  You and Gregory do not have the time or the resources to waste on someone who cannot earn her keep around here.  You know you won’t feel too badly if this is how it turns out, but it will be a bit of a shame.  You’ll lose your movie-watching buddy.

Yes, that is definitely the chief benefit of having her around.  You contentedly look to your right, to where she sits perched on the couch cushions, riveted on the television screen.  Emma Stone kisses Ryan Gosling. She is still wet from the rain, and slowly but surely, his surprise melts in the heat of their attraction.  His hands go lax, and settle on her waist.  For once, Wendy has nothing to say about the ‘male gaze’ or ‘media discursive lenses perpetuating patriarchy.’  Thank the cocksucking asshole in the sky for _that_.  Despite Wendy’s frequent rants and her incessant feminist blithering...you enjoy partaking in this activity with her (much moreso than with Gregory at any rate).  This is because, unlike Gregory, she swoons and tears up at all the right moments.  She genuinely appreciates the romance, despite her critical complaints about the portrayal of women or whatever it is that makes her bitch, shrill and continuous as an angry cockatoo.  She seems unable to help it-- _this_ is _her_ compulsion.  

“It’s so sweet,” she sighs, in spite of herself.  “Just...look at them.”  Emma's shoe lowers as Ryan sets her down.  Swept up in their kiss, neither seemed to notice he'd lifted her.  The looks on their faces (full of  _wonder_ ) when they pull apart is a beautiful thing to behold.

“Oui,” you grin, and cram a handful of popcorn into your mouth.  You finish your statement around the salty mush of kernels, classy as ever:  “And ‘e is shirtless, while she is mostly clothed.  That should satisfy you, euh? Reversal of roles and all?”

“Mmm,” she answers noncommittally, and looks annoyed with herself for a moment.  It is very apparent that she regards her penchant for movies like this as a weakness.  But at least the little inconsistency in her ethics intrigues you a bit, as all her contradictions do.  She sits a healthy distance away from you, never one for close contact, with her ankles tucked neatly beneath her.  To distract her before she tries to launch into a guilt-induced rant about gender roles or whatever, you proffer her the bowl of popcorn.

“No thanks,” she waves the offer away, politely.  “I’m a vegan.  I don’t eat butter.”

The thought thoroughly disturbs your French culinary sensibilities.  Though, you can hardly talk, as you ate out of the garbage more often than not as a child.  But beyond that, it’s a pretty hilarious revelation.  Being you, you have to point this out to her, even if only to see if the irony has yet occurred to her.

“You realize,” you chuckle, “that part of the job we do involves murdering _people_.”

She turns away from the screen then, both brows raised at you.  “I don’t see the correlation.”

You roll your eyes and speak slowly, so she does not miss the obvious this time: “You do not want to kill animals.  And yet, you must realize that you will very soon be doing just that to _‘uman beings_.”

“Oh.” She looks thoughtful for a moment.  “No, I don’t think there’s a conflict there.”

Hah! You can’t _wait_ to hear her reasoning on this one. “Oh? Non?” you encourage her to continue.

“Of course not,” she says coolly--dismissively, eyes back on the screen.  “Animals are dumb and helpless.  So it’s wrong to exploit them.  But sometimes…” her voice hardens, just a little.  “Sometimes, people fucking deserve it.”

You continue to eat popcorn, but instead of the movie, you quietly watch her for a moment or two.  Wendy is quite pretty; you have always thought so.  Her features are severe--but almost doll-like, with her large eyes, dark hair, delicate, pointed little chin.  It’s almost unreal at times to hear things like that come out of her prim, petal-pink mouth.  Especially because currently, she also wears a soft purple sweater decorated with many tiny blue-and-yellow unicorns.  What a _strange_ picture she makes.

“...Don’t ‘old back tonight, when we go out,” you advise her finally, turning back towards your movie with a wide grin.  “I will miss these little talks.”

In your peripherals, she appears surprised, but you also catch a small smile hiding behind the inquisitive look she gives you.  

“...Thanks?” she ventures.  “Though  I don’t know how warm and fuzzy I can feel about that...when you’ve basically just informed by implication me that should I disappoint, one of you is going to execute me.”

“Take the warning for what it is,” you shrug, and crunch on your popcorn, mostly focused on the movie once more.  Now the lovely lady and the handsome man talk about intimate things.  Their habits, their parents.  They do not get physically intimate, but instead fall asleep together, just telling their stories. This, you think is exactly what you want.  It is perfect.

“And what’s that?” Wendy asks.

“A 'eads-up.  A favor,” you inform her, absently.  “Between friends.”

“Are we--”

“Sure.  Now _‘ush_.  You are going to miss the best part.”


End file.
